


The Adventure Of The Stockbroker’s Clerk (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [90]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Financial Issues, Impersonation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 16:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10971042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: London, the financial capital of the world. But where there is money, there will be chancers who will be all too eager to part people from that money – and they can often appear in the strangest of guises.





	The Adventure Of The Stockbroker’s Clerk (1888)

My friend Sherlock had to deal with people from all strata of society in his job as a detective, as the recent cases in Yorkshire had demonstrated. I had hoped that there would have been time for him to have a rest after our trips to the North, but only a few days after our return from his 'failed' treasure-hunt, he was asked to investigate a case of financial chicanery whose outcome shook the City of London to its very core.

The man sat in the fireside chair at 221B was Mr. Thomas Goode, joint-owner of what was in those days the most well-known firm of stockbrokers in the City of London. It was said that he and his elder twin brothers, Robert and Richard, knew enough financial secrets between them to bring the whole City to a juddering halt; indeed, when the newspapers mentioned _‘The'_ Stockbrokers, everyone who read it knew exactly to whom they were alluding. 

Having said that, Mr. Thomas Goode currently looked far from the City high-flyer who featured regularly across the financial pages of the Times. Indeed, he looked positively anxious.

“Poor Robert is beside himself with worry”, he said, wringing his hands. “He is certain that the whole sorry business is all his fault. And the calamity has quite set poor Richard’s recovery back weeks, if not more.”

Sherlock smiled, and poured the man a whisky.

“Why not start at the beginning?” he said gently. “If we have all the facts, then maybe the doctor and I can help you.”

The man seemed to pull himself together, albeit with an effort. He was a smartly-dressed fellow in his early forties, a little gaunt, with greying hair and a well-groomed moustache. He sighed unhappily.

“I am sure that you know a little of my family circumstances”, he began. “Richard's and Robert's father, Wilberforce Goode, an excellent stockbroker in his own right. He married young, and his wife May died giving birth to my step-brothers. My father was Mr. Trevor Weeks, who died in a train crash when I was fourteen. My mother Eunice was left to raise me alone, and a friend recommended Mr. Wilberforce to help her manage her and my few investments. They married two years later, and I have had nothing but love and respect from my new family. My step-father suffered a fall so he and my mother retired to the country last year, which left his business to the three of us.”

I nodded; I knew most of this from the social pages that I occasionally may have glanced at in passing. Only once in a while, unlike what a certain blue-eyed genius claimed!

“Was there not a fourth brother at one point?” I asked. Sherlock shot me a sharp look, and our guest blushed horribly.

“My step-father had tried to adopt a young boy shortly before he met my mother”, he admitted. “His name was Matthew, Price if I recall. But it did not work out at all well. The boy tended towards violence, and he had to be returned to the orphanage after only a few weeks. I have of course never met him.”

“I see”, Sherlock said thoughtfully. “Pray continue.”

“Three months ago, Richard fell ill, and the doctor proscribed complete bed-rest”, our guest said. “It was an exceptionally busy time for us, so his absence was decidedly awkward, as we needed all three of us to share the heavy workload. We tried one man, but he proved unsatisfactory, being more concerned with the needs of his fiancée than those of the company!”

“Shocking!” I muttered. Sherlock shot me a warning look, suspecting that I was being sarcastic, but I stared innocently back at him. He smiled at me.

“Indeed so”, our guest said, apparently missing my excellent display of sardonicity. “Then a friend of Robert's recommended a man he knew. It was very timely; Richard had just had a slight relapse, and Robert insisted on sending him to the country to recuperate, much as he did not want to go. The man’s name was Mr. Malachi Eastwood, and he did indeed prove most useful.”

“Until, of course, he ran off with your funds”, Sherlock said blithely.

I feared for a moment that our guest was going to faint. He stared at Sherlock as if he could not believe what he was hearing.

“How... how could you know that?” he demanded eventually.

“Elementary, my dear sir”, Sherlock smiled. “You placed this man in a position of trust, and he abused it. You and your brothers are known for guarding your secrets fiercely, which is one reason that your company is so successful, yet you came to me for help. How serious is it?”

Our guest put his head in his hands.

“If we cannot find the man within seven days, it will be the ruination of the entire company”, he said. “Robert says that we can dissolve the company before this happens, which will preserve our own financial situations to some extent, but all the people who invest with us will be ruined!”

Sherlock looked at him shrewdly.

“Precisely what do you mean by ‘to some extent’, sir?” he asked coolly.

“Richard is the legal expert of us all”, our guest explained, “and the company is set up in such a way that the three of us get first call on any assets if there is a crash. But all those people trusted me, Mr. Holmes, and I let them down! I can never hold my head up in public again!”

He seemed to be verging on the hysterical. I thought of my own few investments, and felt more for the people who relied on men like this than the man himself, even if he did 'feel' for them. At least he would have all that money to help him through it, I thought bitterly. The rich always looked after themselves.

“Calm down”, Sherlock said firmly. “Now, why do you say seven days? What happens a week from now that is so important?”

I handed Mr. Goode another whisky, which he downed quickly.

“The bonds stolen by Mr. Eastwood were signed into his and Robert’s joint names”, he explained. “He can cash them himself only after eight days have elapsed from the transfer. Since that was yesterday, we have seven days remaining to find him. Unfortunately he can cash them anywhere in the British Empire, so I can but presume that he has left the country. Even taking a ship to Australia would barely put a small dent in their value.”

“Could he not cash them outside the Empire?” Sherlock asked.

“He could”, our guest admitted, “but he would receive only a fraction of their true value if he did so. As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Holmes, other countries have trodden more warily around Britannia after the Don Pacifico Incident†. No, I believe that it would be far easier for him to hide out for just one week, possibly using that time to travel to some far-flung colony or dominion.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. 

“Can you tell me a little about your and your brothers’ working arrangements?” he said at last. “I would like to know exactly where this 'Mr. Eastwood' fitted into things, before you continue with your fascinating tale.”

Our guest nodded.

“Richard and Robert run the main office, in the City itself”, he explained. “I run a smaller office for our richer clients in the West End, not far from Berkeley Square, where I live. Mr. Eastwood worked in Richard’s office, although he did come over to my building with documents from time to time. I myself hardly ever met him.”

“Why was that?” I asked, surprised.

”My office is primarily so we can boast a business address in the West End”, our visitor explained. “The sort of clients whom I serve rather tend to expect me to visit them in their own houses, so I am out more often that not. And Mr. Eastwood always came first thing in the morning, as he had a list of clients of his own to visit. I am not exactly a morning person, I must admit.”

Like someone else I know, I thought with a smile. Then I realized that Sherlock was looking suspiciously at me, and blushed. 

“What did you think of him?” Sherlock asked, giving me a look that said quite clearly that we would be discussing matters later. I swallowed nervously.

“I beg your pardon?” Our guest looked surprised. 

“What was your opinion of the man?” Sherlock reiterated. “So far he is little more than a name to us. Describe him, if you will.”

Our guest hesitated.

“He was never rude to me”, he said, as if he was picking his words carefully, “but on the few occasions that we met, I got the impression that he did not really wish to talk. Though as I said, he had lots of other work to do as well as delivering papers to my office, so I supposed that that was understandable. Our clients pay handsomely enough that they become irritable if a missive arrives just half an hour after they think it should!”

“His physical appearance”, Sherlock prompted.

“He is a little younger than me, very well-turned out and uses a walking-stick which, I think, may be more affectation than actual need. Dark hair, which may have been greying as I think it was dyed; I noticed a stain on his collar one time, which I know can be caused by the use of certain chemicals on the hair. He has a full beard, which my secretary always complained looked rather sinister. He wears those coloured spectacles that they proscribe for certain eye conditions nowadays. And, if I may be so bold, he smelt.”

“Alcohol?” I asked, surprised. Mr. Goode shook his head.

“He must have used one of those colognes that some men think are socially acceptable these days”, he sniffed. “I can understand a little usage of it, I suppose, but he must have bathed in the stuff! I am only glad that we did not have any naked flames in the area when he called. Pear's Soap has always been good enough for me!”

Sherlock smiled for some reason.

“You are very observant, sir”, he said.

“I deal with large sums of money, and have to make judgements on whether to trust people very quickly”, he explained. “I sometimes find that the little things are very revealing.”

“You did not mention that he has a birthmark", Sherlock said. Our guest looked at him in surprise.

“Yes, a small but distinctive one, on his jaw”, he said, “How did you know that?”

“It seemed quite probable”, Sherlock said with a knowing smile. “Tell me, does your brother Robert know that you have come here today?” 

“I could not tell him”, the man said. “He has gone down to the country to visit Richard, and he does not like to be disturbed when he is away for anything short of a financial crash. The two of them are very close, and I know that poor Robert feels his twin’s illness deeply.”

“Are they identical twins?” I asked.

“No”, he said, “just fraternal. ”

“Would it be impertinent of me to ask where your sick sibling has retreated to for his convalescence?” Sherlock asked.

“He has a small house called “Archenfield”, a few miles south of the town of Ross-on-Wye, in the county of Herefordshire. It is Robert's country retreat; none of us really like large houses. He said in a telegram that I received just before leaving that Richard was a lot better, and that they might travel back to the capital together tomorrow afternoon.”

“That is interesting”, Sherlock smiled. Our guest looked at him anxiously. 

“Mr. Holmes, why all these questions about my brothers? You surely cannot think…..” 

“Clearly this Mr. Eastwood targeted your firm”, Sherlock said. “He took advantage of your brother Richard’s illness to gain access, then made himself trustworthy enough to the point where he had access to a large sum of money. It is quite possible, therefore, that he may have obtained information by bribing a servant. By the by, why was he entrusted with so much money so soon after starting?”

That seemed to upset our guest even more. He blushed fiercely.

“That was partly my fault”, he admitted. Robert and I were supposed to sign the bonds when they came in one Tuesday, but I overindulged at dinner at his house the night before, and I was off work for all that day. We were forced to let Mr. Eastwood sign, otherwise we would have lost the chance to have them.”

“You seem to have lost rather more than that”, Sherlock observed. “You said earlier that this Mr. Eastwood worked at your brother’s office in the City. Do you have access to that office?”

“Of course”, Mr. Goode said, clearly surprised at the question.

“I would very much like to see where this man worked”, Sherlock said. “Would it be possible for you to take us there today?”

“If you think that it would help solve the case”, the man said.

“Excellent!” Sherlock smiled. “We shall partake of the refreshment provided by the redoubtable Mrs. Harvelle, then we shall take a cab to the scene of the crime!”

+~+~+

The main offices of Goode Bros, Stockbrokers was a building not dissimilar to 221B, except with yellow Georgian brick rather than white. The only exterior sign that there was a business operating on the premises was a small, unobtrusive plaque on the outside proclaiming the company name. Although to be fair, with fame like theirs, I supposed that any ostentation would have been superfluous. Mr. Goode unlocked the front door and bade us both enter.

“Mr. Eastwood had his office on the first floor”, he explained. “Like most firms, we adopted what I believe is called the ‘Strata Approach’, namely the more important the clients are, the higher they go in the building.”

I could see what he meant by the state of the ground floor, which was plain if serviceable. When we mounted the stairs to the first floor I noted at once a rise in quality of the surroundings; the walls were dressed with a better quality paper, and the furniture was of a much higher standard, though clearly not the best. 

Mr. Goode unlocked a small side-door and bade us enter the office of the absconding clerk. I stared around the room for some time before I realized what was missing. There were no personal touches; photos, mementos or anything.

“Did Mr. Eastwood not have a personal life?” I mused out loud. Sherlock smiled at me and I knew instinctively that I had asked a good question. Though of course I had no idea why.

“He was given up for adoption by his parents, and struggled to make ends meet until he was about fifteen”, Mr. Goode told us. “He was very open about it at his interview, Robert told me, although naturally he checked up on him as well. At that age his natural father died, and bequeathed a moderate allowance to him, enough to secure a small place in London and for him to seek work as a clerk. He worked for two years at Barlow, Heinz & Heinz before being forced to leave.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked at once. Our host reddened.

“Mr. Barlow’s daughter, Ivy”, he said. “She, I believe the colloquialism is, ‘tipped her hat’ at him, and he rejected her advances. He is not the first clerk to leave that firm under such circumstances; indeed, he took the precaution of telling them that he was emigrating.”

“A little extreme”, I chuckled.

“Miss Ivy Barlow pursued the last clerk even after he left”, Mr. Goode said wryly. “I believe that he still resides somewhere in the Far North of Scotland!”

I smiled at that. Sherlock set about searching the room, though what he hoped to find, I could only begin to guess. Mr. Goode took the opportunity to show me the top floor which, as I had guessed, was markedly opulent. After about half an hour we were joined by the great detective, who let out a sigh.

“No hope then?” Mr. Goode asked tentatively. Sherlock looked at him in surprise.

“Oh, I already know where Mr. Eastwood is”, he said airily.

“What?” Mr. Goode almost yelled.

“Calm down, sir”, Sherlock smiled. “It is, after all, fairly obvious.”

“How?” I demanded, narrowly beating our host to the same question.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced a handful of items. I recognized a tube of some sort of glue, a spray-bottle of cologne, a small snuff-box and what looked like two make-up pens of the types used by ladies. 

“These tell me exactly where Mr. Eastwood is currently residing”, Sherlock said cheerfully. “Indeed, were your brother not planning to return tomorrow, I would be tempted to go down to Herefordshire and tell him the good news.”

“I shall send him a telegram”, Mr. Goode said.

“I would rather you refrain from so doing”, Sherlock said. At our host's surprised expression, he continued, “remember what I said about Mr. Eastwood possibly having 'a spy in the enemy camp'. If one of your brothers' servants is indeed in his pay – and I think that more than likely, giving the stakes that he is playing for – then they may well alert him to any danger.”

“I shall put myself in your hands, Mr. Holmes”, our client smiled.

“Excellent!” Sherlock said. “Tell me, Mr. Goode, where do you yourself usually go to recuperate at stressful times like these?”

The man looked surprised.

“I visit my Aunt Emily's house in Southwold, on the Suffolk coast”, he said. “She runs a bed and breakfast establishment called Vermont House.”

“Suffolk is certainly bracing at this time of year”, Sherlock smiled. “What will your brother most likely do on his return to the capital?”

The man thought for a moment.

“He has a house in Orpington, in the county of Kent”, he said. “I dare say that he will head straight there.”

“Then that is where we shall see the conclusion to this fascinating case”, Sherlock beamed. “If you care to provide us with your card, Mr. Goode, I shall telegraph you either this evening or tomorrow with further details. But do not worry. The bonds are safe enough.”

I could see the man looked slightly dubious, but he handed over his card, and Sherlock ushered me from the room.

+~+~+

The following day, we had an earlier than usual lunch courtesy of the excellent Mrs. Harvelle, and around twelve we took a cab to London Bridge Station, where we met Mr. Thomas Goode. Sherlock refused to satisfy either of our curiosities, but purchased three first-class return tickets to Orpington and ushered us onto the platform. A short train ride and even shorter cab journey later, and we were walking up the drive of Dioscuri House, where we found the local sergeant, a tall bluff man called Wilson, waiting for us. I noted there were two of the latter’s officer standing to one side, and wondered that Sherlock had not reminded me to bring my own gun. I had it anyway.

A maid ushered us into the house and we sat in the lounge, awaiting the return of Mr. Robert Goode. Sherlock poked around the room for a while, whilst I and Mr. Goode discussed events of the day. Then finally, after what seemed an interminable wait, we heard the sound of someone in the corridor outside, and footsteps approaching the room. Two sets of footsteps.

Two men stepped through the door, and I could tell at once that they were the Goode twins, even though they were as stated not identical. The taller man frowned when he saw us.

“Thomas”, he said, a warning note in his voice. “What is the meaning of this?”

Sherlock stepped forward.

“Mr. Robert Goode?” he asked.

“That depends on who is asking”, the tall man said suspiciously. “Who the blazes are you?”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at your service.”

There was no mistaking it. The man definitely went pale, and glared at his step-brother.

“What have you done, Thomas?” he asked, his voice harsh.

“Your brother employed me to find the missing Mr. Malachi Eastwood”, Sherlock said with a smile. “I have done so.”

“Where is he?” Mr. Thomas Goode demanded at once. 

Sherlock had by this time moved round to stand behind Mr. Richard Goode. Before the man could react, my friend had slipped on a pair of handcuffs, and was holding a false beard and a pair of spectacles up just in front of the man's frightened face. Mr. Thomas gasped in recognition.

“Mr. Thomas Goode, doctor, may I introduce the missing 'Mr. Malachi Eastwood'. And gentlemen, the doctor is indeed armed and the policemen you see here will shortly be escorting the two of you to somewhere a little less salubrious than this estimable abode.”

+~+~+

It was some time later. We had left Dioscuri House, Sherlock telling Sergeant Wilson that he would get Henriksen to call and collect Mr. Thomas Goode’s statement at his London house – not his office - later that day. Once we were safely ensconced on our train back to London, our client not unnaturally demanded answers. Sherlock smiled.

“The first thing that struck me was that old question, _cui bono_? Who actually benefited from the crime, apart from the renegade 'Mr. Eastwood'? Neither you nor your brothers would suffer, but that is not the same thing at all. So I asked myself, what if 'Mr. Eastwood' was merely a charade, an actor whose main aim was to secure those bonds? But that would mean he had to be in the employ of one of you, as that person would then get not only their share of the business but the bonds as well. A double portion of a very large pie.”

“Mr. Richard Goode’s illness struck me as particularly timely, though at the time I considered merely that his brother was getting him out of the way. It was your brother Robert who gave you mild food poisoning at the dinner that evening, so ‘Mr. Eastwood’ had to stand in for you and sign for the bonds. Then, the fact that ‘Mr. Eastwood' seemed to be taking measures to avoid you, sir, suggested he was fearful that he might be recognized, though he had to let you see him a few times to establish his character, so to speak.”

“Then, of course, there were the five clues in his room.”

“I do not see how that helped”, Mr. Goode complained. “Although I did wonder at the white powder residue on the outside of the snuff-box. I am sure that my brother, criminal although he apparently is, did not partake of such things.”

“He does not”, Sherlock smiled. “The box contained talcum powder, to make his skin more pale.”

“And the other items?” I asked.

“They were a barrage of small things to mark differences between the fake 'Mr. Eastwood' and your brother Richard”, Sherlock explained. “The cleverest one, in my opinion, was the cologne. People are not aware just how important the sense of smell is for humans. That someone of your new clerk's age and appearance used such a product – and to that extent! - seemed strange, but in reality it was for when he met you. You smelt it, and it subconsciously reinforced the differences between your brother and the clerk. Otherwise your mind may have worked to notice that they were of the same height and physical appearance.”

“What about the glue?” Mr. Goode asked.

“To adhere the fake beard”, Sherlock said. “There were also a small number of tiny hairs in one of the draws which, if the police care to examine them, will be shown to be from that beard. I have no doubt that that particular hair-piece was burnt in a fire in Herefordshire, once there was no longer any need for 'Mr. Eastwood' to exist.”

“And the make-up pens?” I asked.

“One for the birthmark”, Sherlock said. “I deduced such a mark because you would notice it, and it would further separate the two men in your mind. The other was to make the clerk look more even less like the man playing him, by adding freckles to his skin. You did not state those in your description, Mr Goode, yet your brother has none, so again it further reinforced the difference between the two men.”

“But what about his references?” Mr. Goode pointed out. “I phoned Mr. Barlow, and he – reluctantly, I might add – told me all about his daughter driving away Mr. Eastwood. Or were there two of him?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“The name came from a real Mr. Malachi Eastwood, who was indeed driven out of your rival firm by that lady”, he said. “I suspected as much, and a brief check after we had been to your offices confirmed it. The real Mr. Eastwood clearly wanted to take no chances with his pursuer; he emigrated to Australia a month after leaving their employ. I would conjecture that one or other of your brothers heard the tale 'on the grapevine', and decided to use the name for their own ends. When your brother told you that he had 'checked out' your new colleague, you had no reason to doubt him.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes”, our client said with a smile. “And all my clients – presuming they still want to employ a firm for whom two-thirds of its owners are now criminals – they owe you a debt of thanks for saving their financial souls.”

Sherlock smiled at him, as the train rumbled over the many viaducts and into the city.

+~+~+

Postscript: The blow to Goode Bros. - or to the remaining Goode brother - from the ensuing publicity was a heavy one, and I am sure (although he never confirmed it) that Sherlock persuaded his father to steer several prominent clients to the form to help tide them over. Both Richard and Robert Goode were sent to jail for a long time, and when they emerged many years later, they emigrated to South Africa, where they were never heard from again. 

Perhaps we should have sent Miss Ivy Barlow after them!

+~+~+

In our next case, Sherlock showed that he could exhibit a markedly cruel streak when provoked.

**Author's Note:**

> † The Don Pacifico Incident was when the British sent a warship to Greece when that country refused to honour the claims for damages put in by the man of that name. David Pacifico was a Gibraltarian Jew who had owned property in Athens that was damaged during a riot. It was a trifling matter, but it demonstrated just where Britannia drew the line in defending the interests of all Britons around the world.


End file.
